


Shaking a Check (II)

by MumbleBee19



Series: Shaking a Check [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety, Language, M/M, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 09:51:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9884549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MumbleBee19/pseuds/MumbleBee19
Summary: Jack hurts someone badly in an NHL game – totally an accident, but he feels TERRIBLE and it incites a huge panic spiral. Bitty tries to help, but feels completely out of his depth. He hopes that Jack's dad can help.Told from Eric's point of view.





	

**Author's Note:**

> There is a reference to Jack's overdose in this story, and his concern about having pills around while he's in crisis. If you are triggered or upset by such references, please don't read. There's also some negative self talk via Eric, so potentially a warning there as well. Lastly, there is a major injury described (although not explicitly), with medical discussions afterwards. I never know what to write here, but please let me know if I'm missing something!! These characters don't belong to me, but I sure do love them. Thanks for reading!

The boys were strewn on and around the health-hazard couch watching the Falconer’s play the Leafs, beer cans jostling for space with paper plates (holding pie, obviously). Eric was leaning back against Holster’s legs, seated on an old bath towel because LORD the floor was almost as bad as the couch.

Ransom was draped stomach-down across Holster’s lap, head resting on the arm of the couch, hips squashing Lardo, legs on top of sweet Chowder at the other end. Dex and Nursey were bickering about the d-man technique of the Leafs (Dex being vociferously against, Nursey demanding that he “chill,” and it wasn’t a bad formation against bigger teams, blah blah). Although in Eric’s opinion, the formation against faster teams like the Falconers wasn’t great, but Bitty wasn’t about to jump in between THAT cockfight. 

Eric pushed himself up – hands carefully planted on the towel, because ew -  determined to fill his solo cup. It was nearing the end of the third period, there were only five minutes left, the Falconers were up by one, and the puck had been cleared down into the Leaf’s zone. He should be able to get to the kitchen and back without missing too much. Plus Jack wasn’t on the ice right then. Not that he didn’t care about the rest of team! But really. One had to stay hydrated during games. Jack would understand. And chirp him that beer wasn’t actually hydrating, but MOVING ALONG, it was liquid.

Bitty was in the kitchen about to crack open a can when the boys started hollering. He dashed back to the doorway in time to see Jack behind the Leaf’s net, scrambling for the puck. All of a sudden one of the Leafs – Eriksson – came flying at him. Oh heavens he was moving fast. Eric held his breath, heart racing, nausea rising, feeling light-headed with dread at the coming impact. Jack was going to get smashed into the boards so hard. At the last moment, Jack saw the check coming and turned, bending down, back almost parallel to the ice. It seemed to happen in slow motion. Eriksson hit Jack’s hip and practically launched over his back like a gymnast off a vault table. Straight into the glass. Head first. Oh sweet merciful lord. That sound! And his neck was so straight when he made contact…  

The Haus fell silent, as did the crowd at the arena. Eriksson wasn’t moving. At all. The commentators were uttering anxious sounding words that Bitty couldn’t really process. Jack was down on the ice next to Eriksson, not touching him, couldn’t risk jostling a c-spine injury. But Bitty could see his mouth moving, see the fear and horror on his face, and Lord he needed to get down to Providence NOW.

Eric felt like he was swimming through syrup, watched the replay, saw the paramedics and trainers come out onto the ice. A Falconer – was that Tater? Yes, Tater, gently pulling Jack away, helping him up to skate to the bench. No, not the bench, the tunnel. Jack was going off. Bitty’s heart was pounding so hard he could feel the pulse throbbing in his neck. Oh Jack. That boy was going to be utterly sick with guilt, Eric just knew it.

When the cameras cut to commercial break, Bitty looked away to see the rest of his team staring at him wide-eyed. “Lardo, I need to borrow your car. Please. I need…”

She interrupted his wavering plea. “Of course Bits. The keys are on the kitchen table on one of the Hulk Smash gloves. Are you ok to drive?”

Eric evaluated himself carefully. He’d only had the one beer. His hands were steady(ish), true his heart was still pounding, but the edge of sickness and dizziness was gone. Voice firm and stronger than he felt, he said “Yes,” and nodded decisively.

Lardo shot him a penetrating look, but seemed satisfied with whatever she saw on his face.

“You should pack an overnight bag. I’ll call your profs for your classes tomorrow, let them know there was a family emergency. He’s going to need you to stay.”

Eric nodded again, smiled a little weakly, and thanked her.

He dashed up the stairs, careful to skip the loose board (they really needed to fix that), and threw some clothes, the senor, and a few toiletries into a duffel.

All of the boys were standing in the living room when he came down, shuffling a little uncertainly. Ransom spoke up first. “Give Jack a hug for us, yeah?” Heads bobbed in agreement. 

“Of course. Y’all get some rest now, Jack’s gonna be fine.” Eric had no such confidence, but he could see the frogs were scared. They needed some reassurance. He knew they’d all be replaying that check, eyes squeezed tight, wondering into their pillows whether it was going to happen to them next. Either on the receiving or giving end of an injury that could…

He had to stop thinking about that or he was going to freak out too much to drive safely. Eric was an expert at compartmentalizing shitty feelings, so he tucked that train of thought away, mentally duct taped the box, and tossed it into the back of his mind to be dealt with later. 

First, he needed to get to Jack.

Keys retrieved from a giant green hand, out the door, around the block to where Lardo’s beat up Subaru was parked, and Eric pulled his phone out for the first time. Bob had texted him. Of course he had. First, Bitty opened a new message to Marty – they’d exchanged numbers after their dinner – and sent a quick message letting him know that he was on his way. Jack wouldn’t be looking at his phone at a time like this, that was for damn sure. Eric wouldn’t be surprised if he was shutting down completely. Fuck.

Marty wrote back almost immediately:

**\---Marty (Falconers!!!)---**

\--Hey Eric. I’ll get him home, so just head straight to his building.--

Bitty replied an affirmative (thank goodness, Marty was with him, Jack wasn’t alone), and started the car. The radio blared to life, and Eric tuned to the local sports channel while he drove. The Falconers had won. Like that mattered at all anymore. What had Jack lost? What had Eriksson lost? Fuck fuck fuck.

Eric mentally berated himself. ‘No, you fool, you need to keep it together and get down there to help Jack without falling apart. This isn’t about you and your stupid checking phobia. You have to be stronger, Bittle.’

Eric reached for his phone and hit the call button for Bob (or Mr. Jack’s Dad, as the contact said). That usually made Bitty smile, but not tonight. The phone rang for half a second before Bob picked up.

“Eric! Are you ok?”

Bitty blinked. “Oh, yessir, I’m just fine. I wanted to let you know I’m heading down to Providence now to be with Jack… I don’t know if I’ll be much help, but I’d like to be with him. He’s going to be blamin’ himself somethin’ fierce.” Lordy, he sounded like he was fresh off a Georgia farm. Bitty hated how his accent flared up when he was overly emotional. 

“I’m glad to hear it son, Jack’s going to appreciate you being there. Eric…” Bob cleared his throat, voice a little gruff. “Eric I know that it’s scary seeing something like this happen. Alicia wants me to tell you that you can call her. If you. You know. Want to talk about it.” 

Tears welled up and were viciously blinked back. “Well that’s very kind. I’m ok. I think. Right now. But … I might take her up on that a bit later?” 

Bob grunted what Eric assumed to be an affirmative. Damn Frenchmen and their weird vocalizations. Eric had seen Jack and his dad have whole conversations using only facial expressions, grunts, and the occasional growl. Ridiculous. Anyways. 

Bob interrupted Eric’s mental tangent. “Eric, I don’t know. Well I don’t know if he’ll be up for talking, but I’d like to speak with him tonight. I. Euh. I know a bit about what he’s going through. Maybe I can help.”

Bitty felt a nearly tangible wash of relief. Someone knew what to do for Jack. Thank Beyonce and all her backup dancers.

“I’ll let him know, sir. I hope he’ll be up for talking to you too … and I’ll do what I can to get him to call.”

Bob uttered his thanks, and Eric begged off the call in order to focus on driving. Once they had disconnected, he realized that he’d been gripping the steering wheel so hard his hands were cramping. Taking a deep breath and rolling his shoulders to try and loosen the tension, Eric tried to turn off his mind. Step at a time, Bittle. Step one is get to Jack’s safely. Step two is … who the hell knows. But he has to get there to figure it out.

The drive was smooth, no traffic, clear weather, so Eric made good time. He made such good time that he got to Jack’s building for Jack. Was that a bad sign? Eric sent another text off to Marty, letting him know he’d arrived.

Tossing his duffel in the master bedroom, Eric paced, hands wringing a little, bottom lip clamped between his teeth. Jack would be here soon, Marty would get him here. It would be ok. He’d be ok. The shrill ringtone of his phone startled Bitty badly, sent him fumbling for the answer button with clammy hands.

“Hello?”

“Eric? It’s George. With the Falconers.”

“Yes, George! It’s Eric.” Idiot, she already knew it was him.

“Where are you?”

“I just got to Jack’s apartment. Um, Marty said he’d bring Jack home, asked me to wait here.”

George sighed, “Good, Eric. That’s good. Can you let him know that Eriksson’s awake?”

Eric’s heart jerked in his chest, a little squeak of relief escaping that George apparently took as a 'yes.'

“He has a fractured vertebra, C4, and a concussion but the CT is clear. No sign of paralysis, thank god. He asked his management to let Jack know that he’s not to blame, ok? Can you tell him that?”

“Yes! Of course I’ll tell him, that’s,” Eric swallowed. “That’s good news George.” She rattled off some more information from the hospital, the details blurring a bit until Eric tuned back in.

“… Eriksson’s lucky. As lucky as you can be with something so UN-lucky happening in the first place.” She paused, Eric could hear a mouse clicking in the background.

“The Leafs assistant manager just sent through something else. Eriksson says to tell Jack that he’ll see him next season in the playoffs.” She snorted a bit. “Hockey players. Kid’s out for the season, hasn’t even been cleared by the doctors, and he’s already planning to get back on the ice.”

Eric smiled a little wryly. He’d never been a typical hockey player (in any way, shape, or form), but he didn’t think getting back on the ice would be his top priority in Eriksson’s shoes. Skates. Didn't matter.

“Thanks again George, for telling me. I’ll let Jack know, and update you on how he’s doing tomorrow, ok?”

“Sounds good Eric. Take care of him, yeah?”

“Yes ma'am, I will. Goodnight.”

Almost as soon as the call ended, Bitty faintly heard the ding of the elevator and rushed to the door, peering out the security hole like a creeper, but whatever, and was momentarily elated to see Marty and Jack walking towards the door. Momentarily, because the drawn look on Jack’s face, the blankness of his beautiful eyes, was enough to make Eric’s heart drop through to the soles of his feet.

He pulled the door open (so what if he was a creeper waiting for them, it was happening), and Jack froze, staring at him like a drowning man looks at a lifeboat. Marty shoved Jack gently into the apartment, following behind and dropping Jack’s equipment bag onto the foyer tiles.

“I’m glad you’re here. He’s in pretty rough shape, so. Take good care of him, yeah?” Eric nodded dumbly to Marty, eyes still trained on Jack’s empty face. Marty turned, gently said something to Jack in French, squeezed his shoulder, and closed the door behind him.

As soon as the latch caught, Eric watched Jack’s expression fall like stones tumbling down a hillside. He reached for him instinctively, grabbing on just as Jack started to slide down to the ground, back against the door. Eric went with him, and pretty much crawled onto Jack’s lap, knocking off his hat, pulling his head in close, and whispering what was probably nonsense while Jack cried. 

He’d seen Jack cry before, but not like this. Never like this. And lord, he hoped he’d never see this again. Jack’s whole frame shook, but he cried silently, gasping raggedly for air, but otherwise the tears just seemed to pour out, too strong to be interrupted by sobbing, soaking Eric’s shirt. Bitty was crying without meaning to, whether in sympathy, shock, or because Jack’s pain was practically a living thing with claws between them, tearing at Eric a little bit, too.

After what felt like an age, Jack’s trembling slowed to the occasional shudder. Eric leaned back, pulling Jack’s chin up with one hand, wiping tears away from swollen skin. His heart felt like it was about to burst, so he gently used his sleeve to clean Jack up a little rather than giving in to the fear for this sensitive, gentle man that he loved so desperately. Bitty pressed a soft kiss to Jack’s quivering lips, another to the pained furrows of his forehead, and prayed for strength. 

Knees aching a little, Eric hauled himself up, keeping a hand on Jack at all times. As if it was a tether and Jack might just … float away without it. He shook his head a little at the fancifulness of his brain at such a time, and leaned down to help Jack to his feet.

Placid as a lamb, Jack let Bitty steer him to the bedroom. Eric didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to help this silent shell of a man in front of him, so he did what could be done. He gently pulled off Jack’s long sleeve, then the t-shirt underneath. Both were unceremoniously tossed to the foot of the bed. Shoes, socks, and trackpants went next, until Jack was down to his boxers and the cloak of guilt and grief that seemed to settle over him.

Bitty maneuvered Jack’s body up against a stack of pillows, and covered him with the duvet they had picked out together a few months ago. Back when things were simpler. He dashed to the kitchen, filling a glass of water and pouring a couple of Advil into his hand. Post-game, regardless of where his head was at, Jack’s body would need the anti-inflammatories.

Eric returned to perch on the side of the bed, handing over the glass and the pills, watching Jack drink and swallow mechanically. Unsure, Eric laid a hand over Jack’s blanket-covered leg. “Sweetheart,” Eric could hear the tentativeness in his own voice, that would NOT do.

Jack’s eyes closed, face pulled into a grimace of pain, and Bitty’s heart ached sharply.

“Jack.” Better. That tone was better, maybe a little too harsh but Bitty was hurting too. He tried to soften his voice a little – find the middle ground between meek and mean.

“Sweet boy, listen to me. George called while you were on your way home. Eriksson’s awake.”

Jack’s eyes flew open at that, meeting Eric’s gaze. Bitty was reminded of a young rabbit he’d found caught in a snare when he was a little boy. Desperation, fear, anxiety… and resignation. He squeezed Jack’s leg involuntarily, desperately wanting to snap him out of that hunted, haunted place.

“He has a fractured vertebra, baby, C4. And a concussion, obviously, but no bleeding or swelling on the brain. When he came to, there were no signs of paralysis either from the neck injury. He’s out for the season, but they haven’t ruled out him playing again.”

Jack seemed to deflate a little, tension easing slightly out of his shoulders. His eyes looking a little less like that rabbit’s. God. 

“Honey, he asked his management to pass a message along to you.”

Eric rushed ahead with the message, seeing Jack brace himself for the worst.

“He wanted you to know that it wasn’t your fault, he doesn’t blame you Jack. Nobody does. He said it could have happened to anyone, and that he’ll see you next season in the playoffs.” The words babbled out, but Eric could already see Jack’s eyes glazing over. Glazing over like they did when he was heading into a panic attack. Which would NOT do, not at all. Not if Bitty could help it.

“Jack Laurent Zimmermann, I can see you thinking awful things. I wouldn’t lie to you about this. I wouldn’t lie to you, period. Not ever. Do you trust me?” Eric felt awful, he was practically yelling at the man, but it seemed to yank him back a few steps from the edge. Jack’s head nodded like a marionette, jerkily. Not the usual fluid grace his body naturally possessed.

Eric’s voice lowered, soft, as soothing as he could make it. 

“Your mom and dad are real worried about you, sweetpea. I can call them for you, but I’m sure they’d like to hear your voice if you can manage it.”  

‘Please oh please, let him say yes, I don’t know what I’m doing!’ Eric thought desperately. Jack cleared his throat, and Eric practically held his breath. He realized that Jack hadn’t spoken a single word to him – maybe a brief thanks to Marty? – since he’d come through the door.

Rather than speak, Jack leaned over to the bed-side table and rooted around. What was he looking for? Eric froze when he saw Jack pull his bottle of meds out of the drawer. Oh sweet mercy, what was happening. 

“I’m. I’m not feeling like. Like I can trust myself right now,” Jack said softly. Eric’s brief moment of relief that Jack was talking faded into the rushing of terror in his ears. Jack was giving him his pills. Because otherwise he might …

No. Nope. Nopety nope, Eric was NOT even considering it. Jack was giving him the pills because he didn’t WANT to do. That. The thing Eric was not even going to give a name to. He held out a hand, marvelling internally a little that it was steady despite how much he was freaking the fuck out, and took the bottle.

Jack’s look of relief was like a lance through Bitty’s heart. Oh this boy.

“Well,” Bitty heard himself say. There was that damn drawl again. Lord he’d need to work on that if he ever wanted to play poker. “Well, I’ll just hold onto these for you until you do.”

That seemed to be the right thing to say, as Jack leaned back into the pillows again, eyes wide but not empty. Ok. Ok, Bitty could do this. Just step at a time. What was the next step again? Bob! Yes, Bob would know what to do.

“Is your phone in your bag? I’ll go grab it for you, if you’re up for calling your parents.” Please say yes please say yespleasesayyes.

“Yeah Bits, it should be in the left side-pocket.”

Jack called him Bits. He called him Bits, and that was the best thing Eric thought he’d ever heard. He was coming back. Maybe still hanging on by his fingernails, but it was something. Eric nodded, desperately tried to control his gait until he was outside of Jack’s line of sight, gripping the pill bottle like a life-line. He bent over, biting his fist to keep from crying out loud in relief. 

Wiping tears off his face with the back of his hand Eric scolded himself. He wasn’t the one … involved in this whole mess. Nothing happened TO him. Get it together Bittle. Eric stashed the pills in the first spot he could think of – the recipe box containing Moomaw’s hand-written cards – and hurried to Jack’s bag.

He found the phone – left-hand side pocket, as promised – and took a steadying breath. Phone to Jack, Jack to Bob, Bittle to Baking, that was the plan. Eric slapped his cheeks a little, hoping to bring some colour into his face, and went to deliver the phone.

Jack sighed with relief – at seeing him? Eric wasn’t sure – and he passed over the phone to Jack’s outstretched hand.

“I’ll just be making something to eat, honey. Take your time, I won’t interrupt.” Phone to Jack. Check. Jack to Bob, in progress.

Jack’s mouth quirked into a shadow of a smile, but his eyes seemed to glimmer suspiciously. Eric smiled in return, backing out of the door and closing it silently, as if even the clicking of the latch could set off a chain reaction that would result in him crying in a ball on the floor. Eric heard a choked “Papa” come from inside the room, and hurried away. 

Jack to Bob. Check. Now it was time for this Bittle to get Baking. When in doubt, Bake. When your boyfriend is falling apart and you are too, Bake. It couldn’t hurt.

Eric measured and mixed, trying to keep the sound down in case Jack called for him, but then realized that it wasn’t helping either of them if Eric coddled him. So he grabbed his phone off the breakfast bar where it had been abandoned, chose Baking Playlist 12 (it wasn’t upbeat, meant more for contemplative baking, but not grief baking or Bitty would cry all over his crust), and pressed play.

He let the familiarity of the process, the smooth motions of muscle memory, and the comforting scents of a savoury pie sooth his agitated mind. At the end of the day, checking – and the potential for injuries – was just a fact of life in hockey. Whether or not he could shake off his own renewed terror of that, well. He’d have to see. Same with Jack, he supposed. Although the stakes were obviously higher for an NHL superstar vs. an under-sized college winger. But still.

Putting the pie in the oven to bake, Eric was just preparing to chop vegetables for a salad that – who was he kidding, no one was going to eat tonight, but whatever! - when strong arms wrapped around him from behind.

Eric let out a rather undignified yip of surprise, but laughed automatically when he recognized Jack’s arms. Jack’s scent. Jack’s face pressing into the crook of Eric’s neck and shoulder, where he loved to snuggle. Oh thank heavens. Oh thank Bob, more like it, but Eric was not one to blaspheme in a kitchen.

“It’s going to be ok. I’m going to be ok, and hopefully Eriksson will be too,” Jack said softly.

Eric’s heart was so full of relief and bittersweet happiness, he could barely breathe for a moment. But when he did, he said with conviction that he actually felt,

“I know honey. I know.”


End file.
